Eric
Bukowski's the type of author you know a lot of people read the wrong way, and glamorize the "confident IDGAF manhood" of the main character instead of seeing him as a (literally) filthy, chauvinistic relic of a thankfully-bygone era, writing obvious male fantasies about his many, effortless affairs with women, getting in fights and duping employers.
But the writing is easy and some of the vignettes are unique and memorable, so you have to kind of appreciate that. No one else is gonna casually mention leaving a "wet brown stain" when he sits on his bedsheets because lately he's been wiping with old newspapers and "often didn't get all of it cleaned off."
Treat these as cautionary tales of the effects of egocentric, toxic masculinity (and of course severe alcoholism) and you might enjoy them.
Bukowski's the type of author you know a lot of people read the wrong way, and glamorize the "confident IDGAF manhood" of the main character instead of seeing him as a (literally) filthy, chauvinistic relic of a thankfully-bygone era, writing obvious male fantasies about his many, effortless affairs with women, getting in fights and duping employers.
But the writing is easy and some of the vignettes are unique and memorable, so you have to kind of appreciate that. No one else is gonna casually mention leaving a "wet brown stain" when he sits on his bedsheets because lately he's been wiping with old newspapers and "often didn't get all of it cleaned off."
Treat these as cautionary tales of the effects of egocentric, toxic masculinity (and of course severe alcoholism) and you might enjoy them.